And therefore she detains these hostages,
As pawns of my return to her and Egypt.
Thus far 'tis plain and obvious:—But the picture;
That Helen: There's the riddle of her love.
For, what I see, or only think I see,
Is like a glimpse of moonshine, streaked with red,—
A shuffled, sullen, and uncertain light,
That dances through the clouds, and shuts again:
Then 'ware a rising tempest on the main.
Enter Cassandra.